


Sherlock and John Come Out (More Or Less By Accident)

by wendymarlowe



Series: John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times [26]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Coming In Pants, First Time, Homophobia, M/M, Virgin!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John overhears Mycroft belittling Sherlock's being gay as "just a phase" and pointing out how much he's disappointing Mummy.  It's news to John, but being straight doesn't mean he can't be a friend - John snogs Sherlock in front of his brother, apologizes for insisting they stay in the closet, and pointedly tells Mycroft to run along.</p><p>Only problem is, John's not gay, and Sherlock's got no experience with any of this.  For once, the consulting detective is completely out of his depth and has to rely on John for guidance.</p><p>(Part of my "John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times" series of shorts, all revolving around the same basic theme of "John and Sherlock get sexy for the first time and also discover some kinky stuff about each other.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll say right upfront that this one is likely to be significantly less kinky than several others in this series. It's a scenario I've been mulling over for a while, though, and I like to think John would be the kind of guy to step up when he feels it's needed :-) I do hate writing jackass!Mycroft - I do love me some Mystrade - but for this fic it kind of can't be helped.

Fridays at the surgery were always the worst. The regular weekday staff were all counting down the minutes until the weekend, the patients were all trying to get in to see the doctor before close, and all of London were trying to cram on the Tube for the commute home. By the time John walked in the door to 221B, he was already looking forward to a good long night in front of the telly with nothing more mentally taxing than deciding what curry to order.

Thoughts of a peaceful evening were ruined by Mycroft’s presence on the sofa, however. He and Sherlock were silently glaring at each other and had been for some time, John guessed, since he hadn’t heard shouting as he made his way up the stairs. He nodded briefly at Mycroft and headed straight for the kitchen.

“Excellent idea,” Sherlock said aloud. “No tea for Mycroft, though - that’s a courtesy I’d like to reserve for _welcome_ guests.”

John swallowed back a retort about how a) he hadn’t actually offered tea, and b) it’s not like Sherlock would have been the one offering tea even if Mycroft had been welcome in the first place. Instead he filled the kettle, plugged it in, and leaned back against the counter to wait for it to beep.

“I’m serious,” Mycroft said. He was out of John’s line of sight but his carefully neutral voice carried just fine. “Mummy is worried about you.”

“That’s her favorite pastime - I’d hate to disappoint her.”

“And yet you so frequently do.” A rustling noise, which John knew from experience was Mycroft twirling his folded umbrella against the fabric of the sofa cushions. “She’s got someone for you to meet when you come home for Christmas - Lady Ashton’s daughter Annabelle. A doctor, Mummy tells me, so perhaps good enough for your attention after all.” John didn’t need to see Mycroft’s face to hear the sneer.

“Not interested.”

“Come now, Sherlock. Mummy lives for the day you meet a nice young woman and settle down-”

“I’m _gay_ , damn it!” Sherlock shot out of his armchair with a snarl and started pacing, in and out of the sliver of living room John could see from his position near the kitchen counter. “When are you and darling Mummy going to understand that? I’m not _going_ to settle down with a ‘nice young woman.’ Simply won’t happen.”

“You say that now, brother dear, but she still lives in hope that you will get over this phase and come to your senses.”

“Tell her I’d rather fuck men, Mycroft. Is that blunt enough for you?”

“So crude - but how would you know? Rather academic when it’s all theoretical anyway, isn’t it?”

There was next to zero possibility that the Holmes brothers had forgotten John’s presence, but it certainly felt like they’d failed to remember he was still there. John was used to Mycroft’s carefully phrased diplomacy - hearing such a cutting tone was jarring all on its own, and that wasn’t even considering the content of his comments. Apparently it _was_ possible for Mycroft to be even more annoying.

So Sherlock was gay. He’d never actually said anything, beyond their stilted conversation about “married to my work” the first day they met, but it wasn’t exactly a surprise. The “theoretical” part was slightly more unexpected: John would have put even odds on Sherlock either being terribly inexperienced or having fucked anything that moved during his substance abuse phase. Having it confirmed (well, sort-of confirmed) was a bit surreal, though. There was something innately _sexual_ about Sherlock - the way he moved, the way he dressed, the timbre of his voice - but he almost never _used_ it, even on cases. The fact that women’s (and gay men’s) attraction tended to wither within five minutes of actually speaking to him didn’t help, but still.

Sherlock paced past the kitchen doorway again and John was struck by how easily he could read his flatmate now, even given just a few seconds of body language. Sherlock was tense, obviously, but it was a different tension than when he was solving a crime. Then it was nervous energy - channeled, coiled, ready to spring forth at the slightest opportunity as soon as a break in the case came. Now the tension was . . . twisted, somehow. Sherlock was angry with Mycroft and angry with himself and he didn’t know how to express it. Ashamed of himself, perhaps?

 _Fuck it._ John may not have been gay himself, but he’d be damned if he was going to let Sherlock be beat up for it. By his family or by himself.

“Sherlock?” John moved forward a few steps so he could catch his flatmate’s eye. “Can you come in here a second, please?”

Sherlock didn’t stop glaring, but he redirected his steps toward the kitchen. As soon as he was close enough, John grabbed his hand. It was warm and slightly damp and Sherlock blinked in shock.

“I owe you an apology,” John said with just enough volume to be sure Mycroft overheard. “I had no idea you were still being harassed about this. I was being selfish.”

Sherlock gaped at him - but, John was pleased to note, didn’t pull back his hand.

“Your happiness is more important than me staying in the closet,” John continued, fixing Sherlock with a significant look. _Just go with it. It’s all fine._

“John.” It was all Sherlock seemed to be able to manage.

And it was confirmation that the great consulting detective was more affected by the situation than he would have been willing to admit. “If you want to go public,” John continued, “I’ll deal with the fallout at work, I really will. Sarah can’t resent me forever. We can ignore the jokes at the Yard - hell, we’re ignoring them anyway. I just don’t want to see you work yourself up over this.”

Sherlock was still frozen, thunderstruck, his magnificent brain obviously working a mile a minute to revise everything he knew about _Watson, John_ and associated topics. John rubbed his thumb gently over the back of Sherlock’s hand and shot him a small smile - probably the same one he’d have been using if he really _had_ been in love with his flatmate. _Which I’m not, of course. Obviously. But if I were-_

“Are you sure?” Sherlock’s eyes darted over John’s face, taking in the smile and the angle of his jaw and the tilt of his eyebrows and what were probably a hundred other tiny tells, but John felt no need to hide anything. They both knew Sherlock’s _are you sure?_ was _I don’t know why you’d do this for me - I don’t deserve it._ And John was very damn sure. Because no matter how “not gay” John might have been, Sherlock definitely didn’t deserve to be belittled for his orientation.

“Love - it’s fine. It’s all fine.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand one last time before letting go and wandering over to pop his head out into the living room. “Mycroft?”

The elder Holmes brother fixed him with an impassive expression.

“It’s not theoretical,” John said. “I fucked your little brother silly just last night on the very spot you’re sitting, if you really must know. And if I had known you were giving him shit over being gay, I would have let him go public about us a lot earlier. So do us both a favor and fuck off please, if you would? Sherlock and I have a lot to talk about, apparently.”

Mycroft stiffened at the mention of sex on the sofa, but otherwise didn’t move. “You’re lying,” he said. “I could list off fifteen observations demonstrating you’re clearly heterosexual.”

“I can show you one big one that proves we’re not,” John countered. “Observe.” And he launched himself at his flatmate for a full-on kiss.

The momentum knocked Sherlock back against the kitchen table. There was a brittle sound of something breaking, a tense second of no motion at all, then Sherlock was moaning and parting his lips hesitantly and John felt no shame about sweeping in to possess his flatmate’s mouth. He tasted of coffee (his beverage of choice during cases) and toothpaste and warmth and John moaned in return as he sank into the kiss. Somewhere between Sherlock opening his mouth and John mapping out every square inch with his tongue, they ended up with Sherlock’s arms locked around John’s neck and John’s arms holding tightly to Sherlock’s hips and it was absolutely marvelous.

There was only a tiny fraction of John’s brain still working as intended, but that fraction pointed out that the point of this was for Mycroft to _see_. Which meant moving. Which meant letting go of the kiss-

 _No._ John tightened his grip around Sherlock’s waist and started shuffling backwards. Sherlock made a needy little sound and hesitated, but ultimately followed when John’s hands started guiding him forward. John walked the two of them to the center of the living room, still locked in their embrace, still mostly focused on the feel of Sherlock’s tongue hesitantly coming up to trace his own-

Mycroft cleared his throat. Loudly.

Sherlock started, his spine straightening, but John still finished off the kiss with a languid press before letting go and stepping back. Sherlock’s eyes were wide open, just staring at him with something between awe and astonishment. John found himself wishing he could put that look on his flatmate’s face more often.

“Guess we’re out now,” he said quietly, holding Sherlock’s gaze. “Mycroft, fuck off.”

Mycroft made a big show of gathering up his umbrella and standing, but John and Sherlock both pointedly ignored him. They didn’t move until the downstairs door had closed firmly and the flat was once again silent.


	2. Chapter 2

There wasn’t much warning - one moment Sherlock was standing, the next he was listing sharply to one side and John had to do some fancy footwork to catch his flatmate before he fell and took them both down. He guided Sherlock to one end of the now-vacant sofa and hovered just long enough to ensure Sherlock wasn’t in danger of falling off, then retreated to the other end and settled in for the inevitable angry diatribe.

The vitriol didn’t come, though. Sherlock stayed huddled in a bony pile of limbs for several minutes, far longer than John had expected. Sarcasm and insult was usually Sherlock’s way of dealing with anything he didn’t understand, anything that challenged his worldview, and it took forever for John to recognize the truth: Sherlock was scared.

“So you’re gay, then.” It was something to say, something stupid, but at least if Sherlock insulted his intelligence they’d be back on more familiar ground. Sherlock just swallowed and kept his eyes on the expanse of cushion between them.

“You never have talked about it,” John pressed, “but it’s not like it was a complete surprise. I always kind of wondered.”

“It’s just transport,” Sherlock said quietly.

 _Of course_. “The sex, sure,” John answered. “Although it can be nice, with the right partner. But there’s nothing shameful about wanting someone, Sherlock. There’s a lot more to a relationship than just sex. And even that can be pretty damn fulfilling on a not-just-transport level. The fact that you prefer your relationships to be with men doesn’t change that.”

“He was right, though,” Sherlock said. “It’s still all theoretical to me anyway. No point in investing brainpower daydreaming about something I’m never going to have.”

“So that was . . .” John paused, sorting out what exactly he could say. The fact that Sherlock would deign to talk about such an emotion-laden topic was a minor miracle in itself - there was approximately zero chance he’d ever discuss it again. “I assume you don’t have a lot of experience with that. Sex. Relationships. Not really your area, you said once.”

“What can I say?” Sherlock pulled his knees up tighter under his chin and wrapped his arms protectively around his shins. “The concept of sex usually requires a willing partner, and you’re the only man I’ve met who can stand to be around me for long enough to finish an entire conversation, much less anything more.”

“There’s Lestrade,” John pointed out.

“Tolerates me because he has to.”

“No one else? Ever?”

Sherlock fixed him with an exasperated glare. “You’ve met me, John. Would _you_ want to-” He snapped his mouth shut and turned his head away.

 _That’s the question, isn’t it?_ If someone had asked John a month ago - hell, an _hour_ ago - if he’d ever consider shagging his flatmate, he’d have told them to piss off. John Watson was straight, thankyouverymuch, and while the whole gay thing was all well and good for some blokes, he wasn’t one of them. He would have believed himself as he was saying it, too.

And it would have all been a load of shit. Because knowing that Sherlock was gay - hell, knowing what he tasted like mid-snog - that changed things. And yeah, John had to admit that being the knowledgeable one for once had a _teeny_ bit of influence on his stance in the matter, but really. _Sherlock. Fucking. Holmes. Fucking Sherlock Holmes._ God, that did sound tempting.

“I would, actually,” John said aloud. His voice didn’t even tremble. “I mean, if you were offering. Theoretically.”

Sherlock’s attention snapped back to John’s face at that. “But you’re not gay.”

“That was before I knew what kissing you tasted like.” _Christ, I’m flirting. With Sherlock. Bloody hell._

“I . . .” Sherlock looked completely flummoxed. “John?”

“Of course, more data would be better. If you were inclined to kiss me again.” _Please._

Sherlock blinked. “But _you_ kissed _me_.”

John shrugged, not bothering to hide his smile. “Semantics.”

Sherlock just sat there, though, wrapped in his bloody dressing gown with his bloody long legs drawn up and forming a physical barrier between them, and _stared_. He licked his lips, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He was obviously fast approaching the point at which his poor giant brain would shut down completely, so John took pity on him and stood.

“I never did make tea,” he announced, “so I’m going to do that. Think on it as long as you want, though.”

Sherlock stared after him the entire way to the kitchen. John got out two cups, dumped the only-vaguely-warm water in the kettle and put in some fresh, and pulled out the box of PG Tips. Sherlock preferred some expensive brand Mycroft had given him as a gift one year - when he deigned to make tea, which was never - but John was perfectly happy with something simpler. He dropped the teabags in the cups and turned, only to find Sherlock hovering in the doorway.

“I don’t understand.”

John knew how much it cost him to admit that. Sherlock _hated_ not understanding, especially when it came to things he cared about. Apparently sex and relationships were now on that list.

“Tell me,” John said.

“You want to kiss me.” Sherlock’s grip on the doorframe tightened. “You kissed me before to defend me in front of Mycroft, but now you want to kiss me again and you’re offering . . . sex? A relationship? Why, John?”

“You really can’t deduce it?” John drew closer, close enough he had to tilt his head up to look Sherlock in the eye. “You are the most bloody brilliant man I have ever met, Sherlock Holmes. You’re gorgeous and amazing and yeah, once I got my head around the whole ‘not gay’ thing, I decided I’d like to do some delightfully sexual things with you. I hate that everyone else doesn’t see what I see in you. Everyone else is an idiot.”

“I’ve been saying that for ages,” Sherlock said.

“Then again,” John continued, “if everyone else was thinking the things I’m thinking about you right now, all of London would grind to a halt and nothing would get done.”

“John.” Sherlock was frozen, just staring at his lips-

“Kiss me, you daft git.”

And - after a long pause in which John began worrying he may have pushed too far - Sherlock did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like your Johnlock T-rated, you can stop with this chapter. Then again, I'm going to assume you wouldn't be reading my fics if you didn't like smut, so stay tuned for some awkward first-time sex and assorted nonsense in the next installment :-P


	3. Chapter 3

It didn’t take long to confirm John’s suspicion that Sherlock had never actually kissed anyone before, barring John’s surprise assault for Mycroft’s benefit. Sherlock must have been operating entirely on instinct, at that point, but now he was _thinking_ and that made him self-conscious. It came through in his tentative movements and the extra half-second it took him to respond to anything John tried.

“Stop bloody worrying,” John murmured, drawing back to press a dry kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “This is a first for me too.”

Sherlock hummed low in his throat and tilted his head further to allow better access to his gorgeous neck. “You’ve - _God, John!_ \- you’ve done this before, obviously.”

“Mmm, not with you,” John whispered just below his ear. “Never kissed a bloke before you.” He tongued a tiny damp patch on the underside of Sherlock’s earlobe, which made the detective shiver. “You taste fantastic.”

 _“John.”_ And then Sherlock was turning his head to capture John’s lips again with his own, and they both spent slow, delicious moments exploring each other’s mouths. He really did taste different than any of the women John had ever kissed - although John would have been perfectly ready to attribute the difference to it being _Sherlock_ just as well. He was also perfectly ready to get down to it - _it_ being anything that brought his aching cock some relief - but the snogging was something wonderful and comfortable and if this was all he ever got of his brilliant flatmate, he’d take it.

“You have an erection.”

Sherlock’s comment took a moment to parse, but then John realized that sometime during the string of kisses, he’d ended up pressing Sherlock’s long body against the doorframe and was practically straddling Sherlock’s left thigh. Of course the detective would notice. John was torn between apologizing or just saying _hell yes of course I do_ and rutting against those gorgeous long legs.

Sherlock solved the conundrum by shifting out of John’s embrace and taking a step back. “May I see?” he asked. “Please?”

 _Please_ was a novelty all in itself, but John was more concerned about the sudden foot and a half of air separating their bodies. “Sherlock?”

“It’s-” Sherlock dragged in a deep breath and ran his hand over his throat and sternum in a self-conscious gesture that should _not_ have been so fucking erotic, really, but it was anyway. “I want to see,” he repeated. “That your body went through that physiological change for _me_. Do you know how amazing that is, John? That your circulatory system has redirected itself because of my presence? Don’t you _understand?_ ”

John understood perfectly - in his own very Sherlocky way, the man was seeking reassurance. Possibly with no forethought as to what, exactly, “seeing” might entail. If he was asking, though . . .

“Bedroom.” John pasted on an encouraging smile and tried to focus on what _Sherlock_ needed right now. “Yours or mine?”

“My bed is bigger, but the algae cultures on the dresser may have a depressive effect on your libido.”

“My room it is then.” John reached out and hooked a finger in the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, just over his suprasternal notch. He was being playful, and he knew it, but Sherlock yielded to the gentle tug with a stupefied slowness which only had John more eager to see how else he could throw the brilliant man off his game. Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged all the way up the stairs in silence.

John didn’t bother to look - the moment he got them both close enough to the bed, he hooked an arm around Sherlock’s too-thin ribcage and threw himself backward. They landed on the mattress side by side. The look of shock on Sherlock’s face was quickly replaced by disbelief, then they were both dissolving into helpless giggles.

“Sorry, sorry,” John choked out. “That was just so . . .”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘corny,” Sherlock suggested.

“But it worked.”

They both sucked in deep breaths and eventually sobered. “It did,” Sherlock admitted. “It was good.”

“God, now I know you’re turned on. A compliment _and_ it was only one syllable.”

“Intriguing. Fascinating. Tempting.”

“Mmm, there we go.” John wriggled closer and palmed Sherlock’s hip. “Want to just see where this ends up?”

Sherlock glanced down at the contact, still muffled through the fabric of his pajamas and dressing gown. “Will there be sex?”

John was mildly surprised to realize he wouldn’t be upset either way. “Probably, but we’ll find out, yeah? Not racing for a finish line here - this is new for both of us.”

“Moreso for me than for you,” Sherlock said. “You at least have done this with women before. I’d say . . . two dozen, give or take a few? One or two when you were first figuring it all out, then several at uni, mostly one-night stands, then one long-term girlfriend your first two years in the army. And on scattered dates since then.”

 _Trust Sherlock to have actually put thought into analyzing my sexual history more than I have._ “Nobody like you.”

“Well _obviously_ \- I have a penis and testicles.”

“I meant more that you’re so bloody brilliant and gorgeous and you intimidate me sometimes.”

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

“Want me to repeat it?” John allowed his probably-dopey grin to show. “You’re brilliant and gorgeous and fantastic and I’d very much like to get you off, now, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t . . .” Sherlock frowned. “What about you?”

“Oh, me too, obviously, if that’s where this ends up going.” John risked another little wriggle, this time shifting forward so his pelvis was just barely in front of Sherlock’s. Their bodies weren’t touching except for John’s hand on Sherlock’s hip, but he swore he could feel the heat from their cocks being _so close_ even through multiple layers of clothing. “No law about orgasms having to be simultaneous, though, and I think we’ll maximize our enjoyment if we don’t have to worry about synchronizing our timing. Roll back.”

Sherlock didn’t move, so John half-tackled him and they ended up chest to chest and nose to nose and - about half a second later - clinched in another mind-blowing snog. John was hard already, but the angle at which he had launched himself on top of his flatmate meant the evidence of his erection was safely clear of detection, at least for the time being.

“Mmph,” Sherlock said, the actual words lost amidst the motion of their kiss.

John drew back with one last playful nip and eyed his gorgeous flatmate. “How do you feel about clothing? The shedding of it, specifically?”

Sherlock grinned - the true grin that lit up his entire face. “You’re brilliant.”

 _God, now I know why he likes it so much when I say that kind of shit to him._ “I’m gonna need that in writing.”

“Not now - too busy getting you out of that god-awful jumper.” He scrabbled ineffectively at the hem, but gave way immediately when John reached down and tugged it off over his head. John returned the favor by sliding Sherlock’s dressing gown off his shoulders and peeling off the plain gray t-shirt he’d been wearing underneath. He’d seen Sherlock shirtless before, of course - hell, at Buckingham Palace no less! - but never like this. Never with an implied _“touch me.”_

Which John took ruthless advantage of. It didn’t take a genius to deduce that Sherlock’s mental abilities took a nosedive whenever John got his mouth close to that bloody gorgeous neck, especially when suction was involved. Less than a minute of experimentation proved the effect was noticeably stronger when it came to Sherlock’s nipples - anything in the pectoral region, actually. Sherlock groaned and practically melted into the mattress when John executed a particularly luscious lick up his sternum and over his collarbone.

“This is amazing, John,” Sherlock panted. “Why is this so amazing?”

“Analyze later,” John murmured into his ear, before nipping the lobe and then moving back down that long, lean body. “First I want to see you entirely naked.” He traced a fingertip over Sherlock’s abdomen, swirled it around his navel, and continued with a feather-light touch down the very visible line of his cock straining against his pants.

 _“John!”_ Sherlock groaned, then stiffened and arched his hips upward desperately in a nonverbal paean. His eyes were closed and his head thrown back and he looked completely lost as he came. John kept his hand over Sherlock’s erection, just a gentle presence, until Sherlock went boneless and collapsed back onto the bed with a silent huff of breath.

It wasn’t how John had intended, for Sherlock’s first time, but he couldn’t have asked for a more erotic sight. How Sherlock went completely _offline_ and was so responsive to John’s touch that he couldn’t even wait to get his pants and pajamas off. It was bloody fucking hot, was what it was, and John had to force himself to keep his hands on Sherlock’s ribcage rather than pulling himself off right there.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said after a minute or two of staring dazedly at the ceiling.

“Don’t be.”

“But I didn’t mean-”

John hauled himself upward and silenced Sherlock with a kiss. “That was bloody well amazing, so _don’t ruin it_. We did promise to just see where this went, yeah?”

“I was expecting it to go a bit further,” Sherlock replied, the beginnings of a sulk in his voice. “I didn’t even get to touch you.”

“You’ve been sexually active for all of -” - John glanced up at Sherlock’s alarm clock - “- twenty minutes now. Give it time.”

Sherlock lay in silence for several moments, absorbing that. John was still hard, but the bed was warm from their combined body heat and Sherlock was still looking blissed-out and boneless and it wasn’t difficult at all to just ignore his cock and curl around his unresisting genius flatmate. Sherlock murmured something unintelligible and pulled John closer, practically using him as a blanket. It was nice.

Elsewhere in the flat Sherlock’s phone buzzed, but they both ignored it.

Sherlock was asleep ten minutes later. John drifted off ten minutes after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gone back and forth on this, but I think one more chapter would be good, right? Just to even everything out?


	4. Chapter 4

“Can I fellate you now?”

John opened his eyes and looked up at his flatmate.

“It’s not quite eight o’clock, to answer your next question, and yes, I was asleep for the last two hours too.” Sherlock dipped his head to nuzzle John’s shoulder. “You’re still in your work clothes, though, and you promised I could see the rest of you.”

“I did, didn’t I.” John stretched his arms up over his head - eliciting a noticeable _pop_ from his bad shoulder - and settled further back into the mattress. “You’re sure about this?”

“Are you?” Sherlock countered. And then scrabbled backwards, putting space between their bodies. “You’re not. Damn. John.” He glanced briefly at John’s face, then pointedly looked away. “I apologize for pushing you,” he said quietly.

“Hey - you didn’t push me.” John propped himself up on one elbow and laid a firm hand on Sherlock’s bare shoulder. “It’s okay, really.”

“You’re not gay, though.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to see where this goes.” 

“Nowhere, apparently,” Sherlock said, and rolled off the opposite side of the bed in a quest for some clothes. He found his pants and pajama trousers on the floor and pulled them on with sharp, jerky movements.

The sight of Sherlock in a strop wasn’t exactly unfamiliar, although the reverse striptease was. John couldn’t help but watch as Sherlock covered up those deliciously long limbs, bit by bit. Retreating further into himself with each movement.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly. And repeated, when he was ignored: _“Sherlock.”_

“What?” Sherlock snapped. “You’re not gay, you pitied me, you decided to humor me. End of story. I’ll delete it and we can go back to how we were before.”

The end of his statement had significantly less assertion to it than the beginning did, but John knew better than to be caught by an argument of tone and semantics. Sherlock could argue circles around anyone when he really wanted to. Much better to coax him out of it . . .

“Do you know what part of you I find the sexiest?” John asked, not looking away from how Sherlock’s torso stretched as he pulled on his shirt. “I love how you look so thin, almost breakable, but then you’re deceptively strong when it actually matters. I think people tend to underestimate you because you’re so brilliant - they assume you can be physically intimidated. I love seeing you prove them wrong. Even before today, I will absolutely admit to a not-entirely-platonic fascination with your musculature.”

Sherlock straightened the shirt with a tug to the lower hem, but he didn’t immediately reach for his robe. _Listening._

So John pressed his advantage. “Do you remember that case with the footballer? The arson?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, still not turning around. Waiting for the punch line.

“He had five stone on you, at least, but you laid him out cold within thirty seconds. You fight smart. And when we got back to the flat, I rushed straight to the shower and pulled myself off to the memory of how you looked in that moment - flushed but exultant. At the time I was praying you wouldn’t notice, but I always suspected you figured it out.”

“. . . I remember.” Sherlock raised his head slightly, eyes still on the wall above the dresser, but at least he wasn’t running off to lick his wounds in private. John was willing to count anything as a positive at this point.

“I kicked myself about it afterwards, about picturing you as I came, but I couldn’t help it. You were just so damn sexy and _alive._ That isn’t the only time I’ve jacked off to thoughts of you, mind, but it was one of the most memorable.”

Sherlock did look back, then, a hesitant peek over his shoulder. John met it with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

“Come back to bed?”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together into a thin line, but he never took his eyes from John. “You keep saying you’re not gay.”

“According to everyone in London except those living in this flat, apparently I am. And now I’m seeing the truth in their argument. Because if I have to choose between my sexual identity or you, I choose you.”

 _“John.”_ Sherlock’s eyes widened, and then he was clambering back up onto the mattress and - not touching, just _hovering_ in John’s personal space. It was all John could do not to yank him down into a heated snog and hope he picked up the truth by osmosis.

Instead, John raised a hand and carded it through the downy hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “I believe you asked to see me naked?” he murmured. “I’m all yours, if you still want me.”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and let his gaze drift down to John’s chest. His fingers actually trembled as he slipped one button free, then another, then another, until John’s shirt was open from his collarbone to his hips and Sherlock could slide a flat palm underneath to press a warm weight against John’s left pectoral, over his bullet wound.

“I hate that somebody shot you,” Sherlock whispered.

“I hated being shot,” John said simply. “But I do take comfort in knowing that you’ll probably find my scars interesting. And you can probably deduce the caliber and angle from the texture and discoloration.” 

Sherlock’s eyes brightened at that ( _of course they did_ ). Moments later, John was being rolled onto his stomach and his button-down was being dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Sherlock was a comforting presence above him, weight braced on an arm planted somewhere to the right of John’s head, long fingers tracing the web of scar tissue radiating from the pockmark on the inner edge of his scapula. An unexpected pressure ( _fingertip against the center of the wound_ ) made John tense, but then Sherlock dipped closer and John felt a gentle brush of lips against his shoulder and it was suddenly okay.

They spent several long minutes like that, Sherlock just cataloguing John’s injury with fingers and tiny kisses. John was moderately hard, just from the proximity and the charged situation, but he let Sherlock take as much time as he needed. This was important - it was Sherlock familiarizing himself with another human body, with consensual touch. John would have happily given him all day if he’d wanted it.

Sherlock did slow to a stop, though, eventually. The questing fingertips and gentle kisses made way to a slow sweep of pressure down the length of John’s spine, stopped only because he was still wearing his (now horribly wrinkled) work trousers.

“I want these off,” Sherlock growled, tugging at the belt loop just over the small of John’s back.

“So take them off.” John worked a hand under himself just enough to undo the zip and the button, then jammed his arm back under his pillow. “Take as long as you want - I’m feeling pleasantly quiescent right now.”

“Quiescent?” John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, but he could hear the amused note in his tone.

“Fuck you,” John grumbled into the pillow. “It feels nice, okay? I like when you do - whatever-you’re-doing - back there. Feel free to keep doing it.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Sherlock insinuated his fingers alongside John’s hips, then dragged pants and trousers together down to his knees. And stopped moving entirely for a long moment. “You have a quite attractive arse, John,” he eventually said with a note of finality.

“Mmmm.” John wiggled his bum a bit, just to be a tease. The sharp intake of Sherlock’s breath told him the movement was perhaps something to remember for later.

“I can’t fellate you from this position.”

John grinned (hopefully his face was still hidden well enough that Sherlock couldn’t tell) and wriggled again. “Going to flip me over?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before strong hands were manhandling him into a new position, flat on his back, legs spread, pants and trousers tossed aside. Sherlock knelt between his thighs and stared for so long John started to get worried that he was going to demand a blood sample, or insist on pulling out his microscope, or _something_. Instead, Sherlock reached out - almost reverently - and traced a single line up the underside of John’s cock.

“Mmmm - definitely not straight,” John said under his breath.

And Sherlock heard, of course he heard. He quirked an eyebrow and did it again, a long gentle glide against John’s skin. John was fully hard now, had gotten hard just under the weight of Sherlock’s stare, but now he was hard and practically itching with the need to _do_ something. To kiss Sherlock, get his hands on him, pull him down so he could get back to the sensitive spot on Sherlock’s gorgeous neck. John just fisted his hands at his sides, though, and let Sherlock go as slow as he needed.

Which John suspected would be very slow indeed. And which was also the reason John nearly jackknifed in shock when Sherlock bent down and slipped his lips over John’s cock in one smooth movement.

“Ah! Fuck!”

He could feel Sherlock’s grin more than see it, but Sherlock quickly recovered and bobbed his head lower, encasing John’s entire length in smooth, wet heat. For this being his first time, he was astoundingly, shockingly good at it. John wondered (with the tiny part of brain still left working) whether this was something Sherlock had practiced, whether he’d had it stored away in his mind palace in case the information was ever of use, or whether this was just the natural result of Sherlock watching porn and being too damn observant.

“It’s because you’re easy to read, John,” Sherlock murmured, pressing tight kisses up and down the length of his cock. “I may be a novice at blowjobs, but I’m an expert at reading _you_.”

 _“Fuck,”_ John sighed. There were probably other, better words, but none of them seemed adequate. Not when Sherlock had now brought his hands into play, lightly kneading and caressing his bollocks, pressing a blunt thumb into John’s perineum as he slipped his lips over John’s glans again. Sherlock’s tongue was in motion now, too, gentle but insistent, drawing shivers and sighs out of him with frightening ease.

Sherlock was devastatingly thorough, of course. John was beyond words for what felt like forever before he finally found himself tipping over that elusive edge. He fisted a hand in Sherlock’s hair as he felt himself tense, but Sherlock had already read the signals and was withdrawing, pumping him manually, letting his saliva lubricate the motion. His other hand was between his own legs, working frantically. They locked eyes for a long moment, then John groaned and came all over Sherlock’s hand. He stubbornly kept his gaze on Sherlock’s, so he was able to see how Sherlock’s own eyes went wider and how his breath stuttered in his chest before he locked up and let out a low moan that only ratcheted up the intensity of John’s aftershocks. Sherlock collapsed on the bed next to him, breathing heavily, and they both lay there for what could have been hours.

“That was . . . god, Sherlock,” John finally said. “Please don’t remind me of my ‘not gay’ phase anymore. I’m horribly embarrassed by it now.”

“As long as it was just a phase,” Sherlock said in a voice which was merely a fraction above rumbling. “And I disagree with your initial premise.”

“Mmm?”

“Simultaneous orgasms are _much_ more fun.”

And then Sherlock caught his eye, and they both dissolved into relieved laughter.


End file.
